


Down Under

by phalangewrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Australia, Australian Politics - Freeform, Australian Slang, Cutesy, F/M, Female Reader, Long-Distance Relationship, Politics, Romance, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:45:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phalangewrites/pseuds/phalangewrites
Summary: Reader, a London-native, is working away from home for the first time, in a whole new country. It's all very new, especially since today, there's a surprise in her room, according to her roommate.





	Down Under

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freckleslikeconstellations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/gifts).



> This was a request!! I had a heap of stuff going on in my life (e.g. moving into my term-time uni flat, uni itself, work...), and it took ages so I'm so very sorry for that! I wrote it set in Sydney because it's close to home, and well, I know a little about that, and some of central London, but hey, _Write What You Know_! I also wrote this while listening to an extensive playlist of funk and disco music, but it's named after [_Down Under_ by **Men At Work**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfmxO-HQ5rU) because that song is practically the national anthem of Australia & I love it. 
> 
> Anyways! I'll stop rambling now! But I hope this is something that you enjoy.

Sydney is nothing like London. Well, there’s still cabs, but they’re white, not black. There’re crosswalks linking pedestrians from one sidewalk to the other. But here the drivers more often than not don’t slow for those on them. There’re people here, but there isn’t Myc. You thought the move from home to the land Down Under would be easy - it was another continent. Australians spoke English. Most of the nuances were understood between the cultural differences.

But for once, you were on your own.

No Mum and her odd assortment of cats crammed into her country house on the outskirts of the city limits. No Sherlock and his antics every other afternoon. It was only you and your thoughts, and FaceTime every afternoon at five o’clock, and lots of paperwork.

The move to Sydney was to advance your career. A bold move, for a girl who came from nothing. A girl who had nothing before graduating with scholarships and better marks than ever seen before. That’s where you met him; the last year of studies at university, at a small party. You were in a dress salvaged from a friend of a friend, a nice afternoon tea dress from three seasons ago, he in a two-piece suit, holding the jacket over his arm, a plastic cup of warm beer in his hand.

Your mutual friend introduced you to one another. He was bored of everything already, and you, well, tried your best to not make a fool of yourself around the other people who smelt of old money and perfume from Côte d'Azur. You cracked a joke, and his façade broke, or, was it the beer that broke it? It didn’t matter. By graduation, you were inseparable, and while he climbed the ladder of government, you worked on your connections in the ecopolitical sphere.

Working in the British embassy was nice. But it wasn’t exactly what you wanted. It was…like a resume builder. Except, instead of working at Burger King for three years to get customer service as a tag on it, it was a whole new country. But it was fine. Good. Great, even. You wore a nice uniform, worked through people’s problems, and found solutions for your own. When you ran out of milk in your shared flat, you spent half an hour wandering on foot around Ultimo looking for a Tesco, but it wasn’t until you heard someone’s unmissable Aussie accent when it clicked that you needed a Coles. Or a 7-11 corner store. It felt strange to hear Australian voices on the radio stations in the break room, and the bus ride from the flat to work. The money was weird, too. Everything was cheaper than British pounds, but it would be hard to scrape enough of it by to buy necessities.

Five o’clock in the evening never came fast enough, especially today. You checked out of work, and on the walk to the train station – sometimes catching the train from the Quay was nicer than the buses that were engraved with everyone’s five-minute romance initials – you’d boot up your phone and hit call on Myc’s profile, and thread your earbuds into your ears in muted excitement. Just like now.

But when he’d usually pick up after three dials, it rang out. You frown, but you think nothing of it.

The robot recording of a woman reading the train times overhead haled the next train as if from thin air, and boarding, you sat amidst the rest of the sweaty bodies. Springtime here was nothing like home, and your stay in Sydney was for six months on probation, and up to two years if you worked well. But that meant two summertime’s, and if spring was anything to go by, you dreaded the oncoming heat. The one summer you spent with Mycroft in Barcelona – he was at a conference with the local Catalonian and Spanish officials – oh, that made you feel so warm, your skin felt heated as if from the bones out, your hair and clothes too heavy and hot.

When the doors opened at Central station, the people around you left the carriage like blood from an open wound. You followed suit, pocketing your phone. It was a little walk from the station, but, you took this time to clear your head. A whole day of talking to people, sorting problems out often left you with a head that felt like a fruit blender.

When you pass by the McDonalds, you take five minutes to order a coffee.  When you walk by the university, you crane your neck up to see the ugly tower that looms over the city skyline. When your phone finishes its shuffled playlist, you realise you’d been using your roaming data the whole time and turn the phone to airplane mode in panic. Even though your apartment had a shoddy version of the National Broadband Network (“Not to be confused with the TV channel”, your roommate Blue would laugh, or, when she was in a bad mood, it was known as “the fuckin’ NBN”), mobile data was like a prized possession. You practically lived off public Wi-Fi.

Someone on the street corner of Broadway and Mountain is hustling flyers at unsuspecting pedestrians, shouting about the end of the world. You chuckle to yourself, evading the paper held to you that reads _The End Is Near!_ ; at least there were still fundamentalists over the globe. By the time you make it into your street, your feet are aching more than ever, and your shoulder weighed down by your handbag and all its contents.

Blue is in the main room when you unlock the front door; the kettle is boiling along to the sound of her meditation CD that’s playing from the machine beside the tiny TV. She’s in her yoga pants and a giant t-shirt that says RIDE FOR PRIDE with a motorcycle underneath surrounded by rainbow fire. Blue looks up from her Downward Dog when you place your keys in the bowl, a grin on her freckled face.

“You look too happy to be a pretzel.” You comment, kicking off your heels into the shoe rack by the door. You blink, noticing a pair of shoes that you hadn’t seen in the rack before; brown brogue-laced leather. “Blue…”

“There’s a surprise in your room, _________.” She winked, and, along with the sultry sounds of the meditation track, went up, and twisted into Monkey pose.

You make it to the stairs, and with every step, you’re not sure what you’re to expect. Has Blue’s nephew come over again for homework help with his mathematics? He never came over on weekdays, and today was a Thursday! And that didn’t explain the brogues at all! The door to your room is ajar, and pushing it all the way, your mouth goes dry. Eyes blink, unsure if this is just another of your vivid fantasies. Mind racing.

“_________! Love –,” Mycroft comes to you, steadying you on your feet. It’s then you know it’s real, because his hands are cool, and they stick to your warm skin. You’re speechless, but perhaps that is for the better, because at once, you drop your handbag to the floor, and push Mycroft further into your room, hands up, cradling his face.

“Oh my God, you’re real,” you whisper, words finally found. “I’ve missed you so, so, _so_ much.” You sniffle, laying your head against his chest.

“_________, don’t cry,” he says, holding you close. His lips brush over your forehead, slow kisses, soft, like the wings of a butterfly on your skin. He’s wearing a suit, like always – it’s a blue which brings out his eyes, and the jacket is stitched with a tiny pattern of diamonds. And now its covered with splattering of your tears. “I didn’t come all the way over here to make my girlfriend cry.”

You chuckle at that. “But you did, _Mr. Holmes_.” You take a breath, and a seat on the side of your bed. “How did you get here – and I mean in my room.” Mycroft licks his lips, holding back a smile. He unbuttons his jacket, and sits beside you, leaving some space between you both.

“Your roommate Harleen found me loitering around near your verandah, and let me in. I assume it’s because she recognised me from your photos.” He frowned. “Does she always let in men she doesn’t know?”

You shake your head. “Harley – I mean, Blue – she’s more interested in Terry.” You blink, and remember Mycroft doesn’t know her as well as you do, “Uh, they’re a couple.” You feel a blush cover your face and place it in your hands. When you look up, you turn to your boyfriend, and address him. “So, why are you here, Myc?”

He blinks, perhaps disarmed by the wording of your question. But Mycroft is not the sort of man to be disarmed, and if so, not for long. “I heard your desperation in our last video chat,” he says, looking at his hands. They sit in his lap, empty.

“So, you took time out from your position in England, caught a plane –,” you stop yourself, and sigh. “I really should be grateful you’re here…it’s just that there’s never such a thing as a free lunch. Especially with you, Myc.”

“I –,” he stops himself, perhaps hearing the words he was to say in his head.

“Is it Sherlock? Or your position, do you need any help?” your voice rises with every question, “Your mother –,”

“It was me,” he replies, voice so very small. You’re suddenly aware that the both of you are not alone in the house, because it’s then when Blue’s meditation music plays a loud gong noise. “_________, I missed you.” He wipes a hand over his face, and you notice the slight hint of stubble threatening to appear. His eyes have bags that look heavier than your handbag. And they look sad. “I can’t believe that now, of all times, I realise how you feel all the times when I’m away for work, wherever it be. I took time from work, bought a ticket here – _________, you have no idea how much I missed you.”

“I think I can guess,” you whisper.

You lean over the bed to the fan that’s plugged into the wall. As soon as it is whirring to life, your skin begins to prickle with the welcomed sensation of goosebumps. Mycroft sheds his jacket, and moving toward him, you take hold of his tie. Under your fingers, it loosens.

It’s just like all the times in London when Myc would come to your place above the green grocer in Russel Square. You’d kick off your shoes, and he his, you’d ruffle his hair – to his dismay, but, you knew he liked it when you did it – and before you shut the curtains in your room, you’d loosen his tie. It was a ritual. A spell. And always, like always, the Mycroft who walked from the street would transform into the Mycroft who walked into your heart.  

But this time, it’s too warm to do what you’d usually do after the tie comes off, and like two lovesick children, you lay beside him in the bed, wearing nothing but your underclothes. Mycroft looks so at home in your quaint bedroom, and it makes your heart swell.

It isn’t until your phone chimes – a message from your co-worker – that the fantasy of the situation breaks, and you’re back to everyday life. And you’re once again a bidding political advisor, and a lucrative socialite.

“When do you go back?” you whisper. Your breath is warm, and opening his eyes, Mycroft sighs.

“I have to fly back this Sunday.” He replies. “It’s a twenty-hour flight. I managed to pull some strings with the airplane, so I can try to stay longer than I would if I went commercially…”

You feel that melancholy return to you. It’d be only four – no, three days that you see him.

And then how long?

You’re not a needy person; Blue knew that. When she’d be watching Netflix as she wrote her column, you’d quietly drink your tea, when she’d have Terry and her friends from Darlinghurst over, you’d chat politely within their circle, complain about the ongoing strawberry scandal, try to understand the current situation of national politics (“I’m the Prime Minister, all I had to do to get the job was stab two other people in the back to get here!” one would say, and watching silently, you’d hear another two friends shout, just like Monty Python, “I am your Prime Minster!” – “Well I didn’t vote for him!”)

“I suppose that’s how it’s going to be, now,” you reply. “We’re like two kangaroos passing in the night on the highway.”

Mycroft frowns. “Is that a local expression…?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know. I just made it up. But if anything, what I know of Australian culture is that in making things up and going with them, it’s commonplace.” You laugh at that. “As much as I want to be happy you’re here, Myc, I can’t help but wonder if a shoe’s about to drop.”

He gathers you closer. If it weren’t for your fan, it would be too hot to be this near to one another. Mycroft plants a kiss on your forehead, and you kiss him back, but he moves at the last minute, and it lands upon his nose.

“I’m not here to break up with you, if that’s what you’re thinking, _________.” He murmurs.

It’s then when you’re startled away from Mycroft’s embrace, because Blue’s shouting up the stairs, “I’m making chili con carne for tea, _________!” You chuckle to yourself, as she goes on, “Is your hot businessman friend staying for dinner?”

You feel your cheeks heat up at that. But Mycroft’s the one who remedies it and grasping the railing that looks over the hallway – it felt so strange to have a loft bedroom – he calls out below, his British accent so different to Blue’s native Aussie twang, “Yes, the hot businessman is staying for dinner,” he says, a cheeky look on his face. He’s never been this relaxed in so long, and you let out a laugh at his wording. “But you can call me _________’s boyfriend.”

When he returns to the bed, you’re sitting up, pulling on your around-the-house shorts and Myc’s old sleepshirt he let you keep, shaking your head to yourself.

“What is it, love?” he asks, pulling his trousers back on.

You chuckle. “I’m always _your_ girlfriend. You know, everywhere we go in London, to whomever we’re introduced to. Sherlock knows my name, but simply calls me ‘The Girlfriend’. But here…” you smile. “Oh-ho, the tables have turned, Myc! My boyfriend!”

He kisses your temple, and gathers your hand in his, and walks with you downstairs to where the smell of chili is wafting from. “Yes,” he admits, “I guess I am.”

Sydney is somewhat like London. There’re tourists everywhere, and the people who walk the streets who are locals don’t think twice about the knowledge they know. There are people here, like Blue and her friends and when you’re not working at the British Consulate, Blue and her friends take you to the most fantastic shows and places you wouldn’t find on your own. The beach is around the corner, and the ice-creams on Manley Island drip down your hands before they’re even scooped in their cones. Mycroft leaves every time he comes, but comes every four weeks or so, bringing his laptop, and plenty of free time to be with you. 

Perhaps Sydney wasn’t so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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